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There are always voices calling to the exile over-seas, 
Cries from Erin's mother-heart are on the wings of 
every wind, 
And they fill the mind with pictures, and the heart 
with memories 
Of the days of love and youth that, long ago, he 
left behind. 

There are always voices calling — and the clamorous 
demands 
Of the present, its ambitions and its triumphs and 
its fears 
Can not lessen for an instant, tho' he strays in distant 
lands 
All the sweetness to the exile of the dreams of other 
years ! 



6 



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DENIS A. MCCARTHY. 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



Voices from Erin 

by 

Denis A. McCarthy 



Associate-Editor Sacred Heart Review 
Author of "A Round of Rimes." 



^>^ 



Work without thought of fortune or of glory. 

Fly to the moon in fancy if you wish. 

Write not a word that comes not from your heart. 

And still be modest. Tell yourself, **My child. 

Content yourself with fruits and flowers — nay, leaves- 

If you have gathered them in your own garden.'* 

Rostand. 



Boston 

Angel Guardian Press 

1906 



LIBRARY of COMGRESS 

Two Copies Received 

OCT 12 1908 

(oCoDyrieht Entry 
^UM <>-^ XXc.lNo. 
COPY B. I 



1^4 



Copyright, 1906 

by 

Denis A. McCarthy 



Acknowledgments 



The thanks of the author are due to the Ave Maria 
and other publications, among them the New 
England Magazine, the Rosary and the Catholic World, 
for permission to reproduce in this volume poems 
contributed originally to their pages. Graciously 
assenting to the use herein of verses from the Ave 
Maria, the editor, Rev. Daniel E. Hudson, C. S. C, 
writes: — 

''A thousand times welcome It was an honor 

duly appreciated topubhsh poetry like— 'Ballinderry,' 
for instance." 

The illustrations of this volume are from photo- 
graphs made for the author a few years ago by Mr. 
Robert Cash, photographer, of Carrick-on-Suir, 
Ireland. They appear here through the courtesy of 
Donahoe^s Magazine. 



Dedicated 



To ALL WHO IN THEIR LOVE FOR THE NEW LAND 
HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN THE OLD. 



CONTENTS 





PAGE 


The Day of the Gael . 


I 


Ah, Sweet is Tipperary 


- 5 


Eve of All Souls . . . . 


7 


The Wind from Slieve-N a-M on 


- 9 


'Tis Spring Again . . . . 


II 


My Own Dear Land . . . . 


12 


A Memory .... 


. 14 


The Green o' the Spring 


- 15 


St. Patrick'' s Day Memories . 


. 16 


// Love only Wait 


. 18 


The Song of the Bugle 


. 19 


At Night 


. 21 


My Native River . . . . 


22 


To Mary, Mother of Sorrows 


- 24 


The Day when the Green Flag Flies 


. 26 


To Mary, Our Mediatrix 


. 28 


In Carrick Town . . . . 


. 29 


Prayers and Flowers . . . . 


- 31 


Christmas in Ireland Long Ago 


- 32 


The Niobe of Nations 


- 34 


Day and Night 


- 37 


The Shamrock .... 


- 38 


May-time in Ireland 


. 40 


Old Cork Beside the Lee 


. 42 


A Moonlit Night . . . . 


- 44 


Robert Emmet . . . . . 


- 45 


The Dream of You 


- 46 


Oh, Why are the Bugles Playing? . 


- 47 



PAGE 

Ireland in the Spring . . . . - 49 

Father O^Growney . . . . - Si 

Robin with the Rosy Breast . . . - 53 

The Hills o' Carrickbeg . . . - 54 

In the Fields o' Ballinderry . . . - 5^ 

O Little Lamp 58 

Christmas-time in Ireland . . . - 59 

The First and Last Gijt . . . .61 

Songs at Christmas . . . . .62 

The Road to Bethlehem . . . .64 

Under the Rose . . . . . - 65 

The Irish on Parade . . . . - 67 

The Roses from the Garden . . . .69 

On that Day ! . . . . . - 70 

The Way oj the World . . . - 71 

When Winter Winds . . . . - 73 

In Bygone Days — And Now . . - 74 

The Fellow Who Fights Alone . . -76 

The Victor's Wreath . . . . - 78 

In Fair Bohemia it is Always Spring . . 79 

To Be Kind 80 

When the World was Youth Jul Yet . -81 

The Memory of May . . . . .84 

A Song of Duty . . . . . .86 

Love's Content . . . . . - 87 

The Troubadour . . . . .88 

A Winsome Wife and Baby . . . .go 

When Falls the Curtain . . . - 91 

A Ballad oj Equipoise . . . - 92 



The Day Of The Gael 

Once more we gather in the sacred name 

Of that far country where our race arose, 
Once more we come to feed the sacred flame 

Of Irish love in every heart that glows; 
Once more we meet within whose veins there flows 

The blood of those who made her ancient glory, 
To celebrate the day the wide world knows — 

The one bright day in all old Ireland's story. 

This day is dear to us. This day our race 

Renews its youth the whole broad earth around ; 
This day our love o'erleaps all sundering space, 

And homeward hies beyond all hindering bound; 
This day, where'er an Irishman is found, 

(And whither can you go and fail to find him ?) 
His faithful spirit haunts the holy ground. 

The consecrated sod, long left behind him. 

And even those whose eyes have never seen 

The shine and shadow on their fathers' hills, 
Have ne'er been gladdened by the living green 

Reflected in a thousand Irish rills. 
To-day their hearts a tender feeling fills, 

Upon their ears to-day a voice is falling, 
A voice that touches them, a voice that thrills — 

The voice of Erin to her children calling. 



The ''sea-divided Gael" is one to-day — 

From North to South, from farthest East to West, 
The spreading oceans can not stop nor stay 

The spark that speeds from Irish breast to breast; 
We're brothers all at motherland's behest, 

Heart cleaves to heart with tenderest devotion, 
And dark dissension passes like a jest 

In all the glow of this dear day's emotion! 

The winds of fate have blown us far and wide. 

Of cruel laws we've known the bitter ban, 
But all in vain oppression's hand has tried 

To bend us to a proud imperial plan. 
We are no remnant of a conquered clan — 

Eight hundred years of tyranny and terror 
Defiant leave us as when first began 

Their long, long reign of ignorance and error! 

We've known defeat, we've known the anguish keen 

Of those who see their country's glory fled, — 
The famine days — the living spectres lean — 

The little children hungering for bread. 
And yet the Irish nation is not dead! 

In spite of sword and suffering and sorrow. 
When all seems lost, again she lifts her head. 

And turns expectant toward some bright tomorrow! 

On England's realm the day is never done, 
She well may boast her far-flung battle-line 



Her morning drum-beat following the sun, 
She rules alike the palm-tree and the pine. 

But, Erin dear, a wider sway is thine! 

A truer state of empire thou maintainestl 

Thy right to homage is a right divine 

Because, dear land, by love alone thou reignest! 

The empire won by steel and held by force 

Must some time fail, must some time fall to nought, 
The onward moving years' resistless course 

Full many a dynasty to dust has brought. 
Belshazzar's kingdom cunningly was wrought, 

And yet there came a day of dire disaster. 
There came a message that with meaning fraught 

Foretold the triumph of another master! 

Thus power has passed, and thus will pass again. 

God lives and reigns whate'er the fool may say. 
God is not mocked. He keeps his tryst with men, 

He bides his time until the appointed day. 
And then he moves. And then he sweeps away 

The fabrics fondly made to last forever. 
And then a ruin where the lizards play 

Is all that marks the place of proud endeavor! 

This, this is Erin's comfort in her grief 

And this her consolation in her care: 
She holds unshaken still her old belief 

That God's high judgments are not false but fair; 



When other peoples perish in despair, 

Or bow the knee before unholy altars, 
Whatever cross poor Ireland's shoulders bear, 

Her Christian courage never faints nor falters! 

And so this day's a day of faith and hope! 

Whate'er misfortunes through the year may fall, 
To-day in darkness we refuse to grope. 

To-day our fingers fling aside the pall. 
To-day we answer to the clarion call 

Of those at home — true-hearted sons that love her, 
To-day we pledge our fealty to all 

Who strive to place her own free flag above her! 




Pi 
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Oh 



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Ah, Sweet Is Tipperary 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow, 
When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all 
a-tremble 
With their singing and their winging to and fro; 
When queenly Slieve-na-mon puts her verdant ves 
ture on, 
And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring ; 
When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that 
dance — 
Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring! 



Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year. 

When the mists are rising from the lea, 
When the Golden Vale is smiling with a beauty all 
beguiling 

And the Suir goes crooning to the sea ; 
When the shadows and the showers only multiply the 
flowers 

That the lavish hand of May will fling ; 
When in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly plays — 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring! 



Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When Hfe like the year is young, 
When the soul is just awaking like a lily blossom 
breaking. 

And love words linger on the tongue; 
When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes, 

And love dreams cluster and cling 
Round the heart and round the brain, half of pleasure, 
half of pain — 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring! 



Eve Of All Souls 

Cometh again the feast of those who have journeyed 
before us, 
Those who have passed beyond, and left us behind 
heavy-hearted. 
Over the world arise the prayers of the living in chorus, 
Asking the mercy of God on the souls of the faithful 
departed. 

Cometh again the day of those who have loved us, and 
cherished, 
Those on whose strength we have leaned, whose 
spirit has helped and befriended. 
Those in whose love we have lived as the plant by the 
sunlight is nourished, 
Those who have cheered us and smiled till the grief 
that assailed us was ended. 

Cometh again the time in these opening hours of 
November, 
Time when the bonds of the spirit are closelier 
drawn in devotion. 
Time when the heart of the Church is especially 
moved to remember. 
Time when her orisons rise with a noise like the 
moan of the ocean. 

7 



Never before I knew the meaning and depth of the 
morrow, 
Never before its truth had power my mind to 
awaken, 
Never before 'till now — when sore is my heart with 
the sorrow, 
Sore with the sorrow that came when the friend of 
my bosom was taken. 

Cometh the feast of the dead. Oh friend, whose 
departure bereft me! 
I have no fear you are gone on a voyage alone and 
uncharted. 
Great is my grief, yet I know you are safe, since the 
moment you left me, 
Safe in the keeping of God in the port of the faith- 
ful departed! 



The Wind From Slieve-Na-Mon 



The gentle wind from SHeve-na-mon, how softly would 
it sing 

Across the verdant valleys at the opening of the spring! 

How tenderly 'twould whisper of the summer com- 
ing on, 

The sighing wind, the singing wind that came from 
Slieve-na-mon ! 



The gracious wind from Slieve-na-mon, how kindly 

would it croon 
Across the silent meadows in the summer-stricken 

noon. 
What respite and relief it brought to every weary one, 
The kindly, cooling, blessed wind that blew from 

Slieve-na-mon! 



The wailing wind from Slieve-na-mon, I seem to hear 

it still 
As long ago I heard it from the fairy-haunted hill, 
As long ago I heard it when the harvest moon was 

wan, 
And feared the banshee's wailing in the wind from 

Slieve-na-mon! 



The roaring wind from Slieve-na-mon, how wildly 

w^ould it blow, 
When winter cast upon its wings the burden of the 

snow 1 
It shook the house with fury and it shook our hearts 



anon, 



The wild and wintry wind that came from stormy 
Slieve-na-mon! 



The magic wind from Slieve-na-mon — sometimes it 
was a blast 

Of faint enchanted bugles blown from Ireland's glori- 
ous past, 

How many a dream it brought of days when Ireland's 
banner shone, 

And Irish cheers were mingled with the wind from 
Slieve-na-mon! 

The lonesome wind from Slieve-na-mon — Ah, weary 

heart of mine. 
It blows across a grave to-day as sacred as a shrine. 
It blows across my mother's grave wherein when life 

is gone 
God grant that I may rest beneath the wind from 

Slieve-na-mon ! 



lO 



'Tis Spring Again 

'Tis Spring again and the woods are wet 

With the gracious gift of the April rain, 
The sign of approaching summer is set 

In the tender green of the plain, 
The robin rests in his flight and shakes 

A clinging drop from his shining wing. 
And over the woodland silence breaks 

The first sweet song of the spring! 

'Tis spring again and the grasses hark 

To the magic message the winds convey, 
The flowers push through the damp and the dark 

To star the meadows of May; 
The rivers long in the winter's trance 

Now over the rocks their waters fling. 
Or softly steal where the sunbeams glance 

Through blossoms and buds of spring. 

'Tis spring again and the vagrant heart 

Of the poet pent in the city's walls 
Is flying far from the crowd apart 

Where the voice of the young year calls. 
For tired is he of struggle and strife 

Of thoughts that trouble, of cares that cling, 
And dreams of a sweeter, simpler life 

Awake at the touch of the spring 1 



II 



My Own Dear Land 

My own dear land, there's no other Kke you, none! 
Or east or west no other land so fair beneath the sun ; 
However beautiful they be, however high they stand, 
They can not rival Rosaleen *, my own dear land ! 

My own dear land, there is music in your name, 

There's magic in the memory of your olden, golden 
fame, 

There's glory in the story of the gleaming battle- 
brand 

Of those who died for Rosaleen, my own dear land! 

My own dear land, it is years since I have seen 

The mist upon your mountains and the sunny vales 

between, 
'Tis years since I have watched the day die out along 

the strand, 
The shining shore of Rosaleen, my own dear land! 

My own dear land, I have dreamed of you for years, 
I've wept for you with longing and I've longed for you 

with tears. 
But miles of billows racing on across the sounding 

sand 
Have kept me far from Rosaleen, my own dear land ! 

* One of the old, poetic names for Irelanil was, as is well 
known, "Roisin Dubh or Dark Rosaleen. 



12 



My own dear land, I am wishful to be gone, 

To see again the sunlight on the slope of Slieve-na- 

mon, 
To meet again the people of the friendly heart and 

hand 
Who live and love with Rosaleen, my own dear land! 



13 



A Memory 

Palm Sunday, 1902. 
A pearly light upon the water lay, 

The morn was calm, 
The airs that blowing blessed the Sabbath day 

Were sweet as balm ; 
The sea birds rested on the peaceful tide — 

They seemed asleep. 
Save when on snowy jnnions floating wide 

They swept the deep. 

The peace of God upon the circling scene 

Was brooding there, 
Afar the islands showed the tender green 

Of springtide fair, 
Our own beloved city, known so well, 

Arose beyond. 
Transformed and beautified as at the spell 

Of wizard's wand. 

O, that our lives forever thus might be 

So calm, so sweet, 
Removed from all the misery we see 

Where many meet! 
O, that our days might always be as fair 

And free from dole 
As that bright morning when we felt no care 

In heart or soul! 



14 



The Green O' The Spring 

Sure, afther all the winther, 

An' afther all the snow, 
'Tis fine to see the sunshine, 

'Tis fine to feel its glow, 
'Tis fine to see the buds break 

On boughs that bare have been — 
But best of all to Irish eyes 

'Tis grand to see the green ! 

Sure, afther all the winther. 

An' afther all the snow, 
'Tis fine to hear the brooks sing 

As on their way they go; 
'Tis fine to hear at mornin' 

The voice of robineen, 
But best of all to Irish eyes, 

'Tis grand to see the green ! 

Sure, here in grim New England 

The spring is always slow. 
An' every bit o' green grass 

Is kilt wid frost and snow ; 
Ah, many a heart is weary 

The winther days, I ween — 
But oh, the joy when springtime comes 

An' brings the blessed green! 

15 



St. Patrick's Day Memories 

Herean_,the^strangers' city 

The winds blow bitter and keen, 
But over the sea in Ireland now 

I know that the fields are green ; 
I know that the fields are green, and the snow 

From the hills has melted away, 
And the blackbird sings, an' the shamrock springs, 

On dear St. Patrick's Day! 

I know that the bells are ringing 

From many a belfry quaint, 
In many a chapel the sagart tells 

The glory of Ireland's saint; 
From many a cabin lowly and poor, 

From many a mansion gay, 
The strains arise to the list'ning skies 

Of sweet ''St. Patrick's Dav." 

I know that the boys are gathered 

Outside on the village green. 
Where many a feat of stalwart strength 

Enlivens the sunlit scene ; 
And who would be blaming an Irish youth 

For letting his glances stray 
To the caihns dressed in their Sunday best 

On dear St. Patrick's Day! 

i6 



Here in the strangers' city 

Are fortune and fame tjalore. 
The poor man's son may win if he will 

A measure of golden store; 
But ever when springtime comes again 

I wish I were far away 
Where the Suir flows and tiie shamrock grows, 

On dear St. Patrick's Day! 



17 



If Love Only Wait 

Ah me, but the day is so long! 

And the toil is so hard, and the brain 
So weary of weighing the right and the wrong, 

So tired of the stress and the strain ! 
What dream of delight can endure 

The noise and the dust of the street ? — 
Yet if Love only wait at the end of the day 

The toil and the trouble are sweet! 

The heart would be roaming afar. 

These sunshiny days, to the green 
Delights of the grove where the singing birds are. 

And the flash of the river is seen; 
But here are a desk and a chair, 

And a task for a ]ioet unmeet — 
Yet if Love only wait at the end of the day 

The toil and the trouble are sweet! 



i8 



The Song Of The Bugle 

The bugle sang in the night, and rang, 

It startled tlie sleepers all, 
"Come forth," it said, ''from berth and bed. 

The foemen storm the wall! 
Come forth! Come forth! For out of the north 

They pour like a river of men — 
Up slug! Up sot! Or else, God wot. 

Ye never may wake again!" 

The bugle sang in the night, and rang. 

The cresset flared in the gloom. 
What hurrying then of half-clad men. 

Of lordling, yeoman, groom! 
What furious clang as the war-bell rang. 

And the warrior weapons clashed. 
As forth to the fight in the dead of the night 

The soldiers of Ireland dashed! 

The bugle sang in the night, and rang. 

It startled the silent street — 
"Come, burghers brave, from your beds, and save 

Your town from the foeman's feet! 
See knight and squire with spirits afire, 

They rush to the leaguered walls — 
Nay, hold not back, when your foes attack, 

And the honor of Ireland calls!" 



19 



The bugle sang as the weapons rang, 

As the enemy charged and slew, 
Through storm and stress of the battle's press 

Its song rose steady and true. 
New strength it lent to hearts forespent, 

New hope when hope was gone — 
Oh, ever the brave command it gave, 

'Tight on! Fight on! Plghton!" 



In dust and blood the garrison stood, 

The fight was over and past, 
With many a blow they had chased the foe 

From their ancient walls at last. 
The day-dawn glowed in the east, and showed 

Like a banner of vict'ry red — 
But the bugle rang no more, nor sang, 

For the trumpeter lad lay dead! 



20 



At Night 



Often at night my little daughter stirs 

And cries, perhaps at some rude dream of ill, 

But when she feels her father's hand on hers 
She sinks again to slumber sweet and still. 



"&*■ 



Often at night I, too, from dreaming start, 
Shaken by fears, alas, that are not dreams, 

But when Thou lay'st Thy hand upon my heart, 
O Christ the Comforter, how sweet it seems! 



21 



My Native River 

When I am sick of Fortune's quest 

And tired of life's endeavor, 
I ho|)e I may return and rest 

Beside my native river — 
Beside that softly-flowing stream 

Whereon the sunbeams quiver, 
Where breezes play, the livelong day. 

Beside my native river! 

The city of the stranger here, 

Oh, I can love it never. 
For sweeter still and far more dear 

I hold my native river. 
My sweetest dreams are still of home, 

And nothing can dissever 
My heart from those, remembrance knows 

Beside my native river! 

I know a spot where willows grow% 

And leaves of aspen shiver. 
Where, in the days of long ago, 

I sat beside the river; 
A pledge of love was giv'n me there — 

Ah, God be with the giver 
Who lies to-day, far, far away 

By that beloved river! 

22 



I should be happy here, they say, 

With friends that love me ever, 
But older friends are far away 

Beside my native river; 
The strangers' land is rich and fair, 

But may my soul deliver 
Her latest sigh to God on high 

Beside my native river! 



2.^ 



To Mary, Mother Of Sorrows 



Mary, O Mother of Sorrows! Whenever I turn to 

thee, 
I think of another mother of sorrows across the sea, 
I think of another, sitting far over the distant main, 
Her bosom burdened with sorrow and pierced with 

the sword of pain ! 



Mary, O Mother of Grief! When I gaze on thy pic- 
tured face. 

Rises another ])icture that nothing can ever erase, 

Ireland troubled and tried, her spirit tormented and 
torn — 

Surely, ye twain are alike in the sorrow^s that each has 
borne! 



Mary, O Mother of Sorrows! Beautiful still in thy 

woe, 
Ever they merge — thy face and the other face that I 

know. 
They are so like each other, ah, well I can understand 
The cause of the love they give thee, the sons of that 

dear old land! 



34 



Mary, O Mother of Sorrows! Thy sorrow with joy 

was crowned — 
Surely a solace will also for Ireland's sorrow be found 
Surely her faith and her love and her patience through 

all the past 
Will win her the crown of joy from the hands of thy 

Son at last! 



25 



The Day When The Green 

Flag Flies 

After the dreary winter weather, 

After the cold and the silence too, 
Spring and St. Patrick's Day together 

Come with a message of hope anew. 
Green grass growing in sheltered places 

Shows its color to weary eyes — 
How can we wonder that all the races 

Welcome the day when the green flag flies ? 



Wheresoever their sires have sailed from, 

Wheresoe'er they have bowed and knelt, 
Wheresoever themselves have hailed from, 

All are one with the kindly Kelt; 
All are one on this day delightful. 

Under the clear blue springtime skies, 
Irish all by a claim that's rightful, 

Hailing the day when the green flag flies I 

Herald of hope and of joys that follow, 
Ireland's day in the springtime comes — 

Seems it not that the summer swallow 
Answers the call of the Irish drums ? 

26 



Seems it not that the seeds awaking 

Up through the snowdrifts struggle to rise, 

Hearing the noise that the fifes are making — 
Patrick's Day when the green flag flies! 

After your dreary winter's ended, — 

Olden land o'er the waters blue! — 
Shall we not hope for a springtime splendid, 

Hope for a springtime, even for you ? 
Heart and hand shall we cease to strengthen ? 

Valor and virtue, cease to prize ? — 
Ah, my land, how the sad years lengthen, 

Waiting that day when the green flag flies 



27 



To Mary, Our Mediatrix 

Thy Son, O Mary, is the Sun in Heaven — 

Can human eyes withstand His radiance bright? 

But thou, O Mary, as the moon art given 
To cheer our souls with thy reflected light ! 

Thy Son, O Mary, is the Prince of Splendor — 
How shall we dare to stand before His face ? 

But thou, O Mary, art His Mother tender : 
Gain thou for us His mercy and His grace! 

Thy Son, O Mary, slain for our transgression — 
How can we ask for aught who used Him thus ? 

But thou, whose sinlessness exceeds expression, — 
Take thou our prayers, and offer them for us ! 



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In Carrick Town 

On Christmas Day in Carrick town 

Ere yet the dawn illumes the east, 
Before the altar bending down 

Behold the people and the priest; 
What though the way be long and cold, 

And snow lie deep upon the sod, 
They gather as their sires of old 

On Christmas morn to worship God. 
Ah, thus it is on Christmas Day 
In Carrick town so far away! 

In Carrick town on Christmas Day 

(Ah me, the simple faith of them!) 
They build a lowly hut, and lay 

Therein the Babe of Bethlehem; 
And all day long from lane and street 

Come rich and poor and old and young 
To see the Crib, and hear the sweet 

"Venite Adoremus" sung. 

Yea, so it is on Christmas Day 
In Carrick town so far away I 

On Christmas Day in Carrick town 

The holly gleams above the shelf— 
The hean aHighe * has on a gown 
In which she hardly knows herself; 
* Pronounced "Banathee," approximately. 

29 



No costly viands there are spread 

No blushing wine its glow imparts, 
But humble fare with love, instead 
And kindly words and friendly hearts! 
Ah, thus it is on Christmas Day 
In Carrick town so far away! 

In Carrick town on Christmas Day — 

Ah, would that I were there again, 
Though many a friend has passed away, 

And boys that once I knew are men; 
Though I have slipped from many a mind. 

And some have e'en forgot my name, 
I think perhaps that I should find 

Some heart among them still the same! - 
Some boy with whom I used to play 
In Carrick town on Christmas Day ! 



30 



Prayers And Flowers 

The flowers that in youth I brought 
To deck thy shrine, O Virgin dear! 

Are turned to dust, are fall'n to nought, 
Are fragrance fled, this many a year. 

Not so do youthful prayers depart, — 
The sweet "Hail Marys" murmured low. 

Retain their influence o'er my heart 
To-day as twenty years ago. 



31 



Christmas In Ireland Long Ago 

At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago, 

The blazing log upon the hearth gave out a cheery 

glow, 
And lit the kindly faces that I used to love and know, 
At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 



At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago, 

The holly on the dresser crowned the dishes in a row, 

The Christmas candle beaming threw its light across 

the snow. 
At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 

At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago. 
Without the wind might bluster and without the wind 

might blow, 
Within was peace among us and the kind word to and 

fro. 
At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 

At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago, 
I mind the merry music of the fiddle and the bow, 
I mind a song we used to sing, together, soft and slow, 
At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 



32 



At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago, 

I mind a hand that led me through the darkness and 

the snow, 
To see Our Saviour lying in a manger rude and low, 
At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 

Ah, Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! — 
Your memories are dearer still the older that I grow. 
And harder 'tis to keep them back — the tears so fain 

to flow 
For Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 



33 



The Niobe Of Nations 

Oh, thou land of graves and grieving! 

Oh, thou land of tears and sighs! 
Beautiful beyond believing 

Is the sunshine of thy skies! 
Exquisite beyond ex]:>ression. 

Jewel-like thy vales are set. 
Oh, thou land of |)ride and passion! 

Land of sadness and regret! 

Never land had such adorning 

As the verdure of thy hills, 
Never did the light of morning 

Shine upon such laughing rills. 
Nature gave thee in the making 

Every gift she could bestow, 
Yet thy heart is always breaking 

Oh, thou weary land of woe! 

Gazing on thy sun-lit valleys. 

Strange it is to deem that thou 
Still must drain the bitter chalice. 

Wear the thorns upon thy brow! 
That, with bruised feet and bleeding, 

Still thy fate it is to be 
On the painful pathway leading 

To^a constant Calvary! 

34 



Oft in bygone boyhood musing 

Have I lain beside thy streams, 
Glorious hoi es for thee suffusing 

All the spirit of my dreams, 
Till I almost heard the rattle 

Of avenging spear and shield. 
And the dust of freedom's battle 

Blotted out the smiling field. 



Splendid dreams like this have often 

Stirred and cheered thy sons of song, 
But they can not soothe or soften 

Wounds that fester century-long. 
They may flash across our sorrow 

Like a momentary gleam — 
Sterner souls thy sons must borrow: 

They must do as well as dream! 



Soldier-spirits hast thou given 

Nations all the wide world o'er, 
Men whose valor might have driven 

Kings and tyrants from thy shore. 
Foreign fields have known the daring 

Of their cheering, charging line. 
But their swords, oh, mother Erin, 

Flash for every cause but thine! 



35 



Oh, thou land so blest by beauty! 

Oh, thou land so curst by care! 
Here we pledge our love and duty, 

We the shamrock badge who wear: 
Though no banners high above thee 

Flaunt thy glory to the skies, 
In thy lowliness we love thee 

Oh, thou land of tears and sighs' 



36 



Day And Night 

All day I seek the mean reward 

That falls to earthly strife; 
All day the thought of Thee, O Lord, 
Is crowded out of deed and word, 
Is crowded out of life. 

But when I shake my spirit free 
From earthly chains at night, 
The vaulted dusk is filled with Thee, 
And every star becomes to me 
A holy altar-light! 



37 



The Shamrock 

Patrick, Apostle of Ireland, preaching the Gospel of 

God, 
Showed to the people a shamrock plucked at his feet 

from the sod. 
"Here is a symbol," he said, "and a sign of the faith 

I preach! 
Here is a symbol," he said, "and a sign of the truth 

I teach!" 

"God is not many but One. One God, One only, 

is He, 
God is not many but One, though the Persons in God 

are three. 
E'en as the shamrock I pluck for you — " holding it 

forth to them, 
"Still is but one, although triple its leaves upon stalk 

and stem." 

Flashed o'er the minds of the people the truth that was 

erewhile dim. 
Chieftain and bard and druid, all flocked to the feet 

of him. 
Passed from the faiths that had fettered them under 

the pagan rod, 
Giving their hearts and their souls and their wills to 

the One True God! 

38 



Patrick, Apostle of Ireland, preached to the people, 

and made 
Ireland a nation whose sanctity never shall fail or fade. 
Centuries-old is the story — yet Irish women and men 
Love as the badge of their faith the shamrock ever 

since then! 



39 



Maytime In Ireland 

When first the springtime, blown from southern 
spaces, 

With timorous step invades the city streets, 
And brightens e'en the gray, prosaic places 

Where toilers hurry and where traders meet, 
Ah, then I weary of my sad sojourning. 

My years and years of wand 'ring far away. 
And homeward like a bird my heart's returning 

To be in Ireland in the month of May ! 



All times and seasons in the land of Erin 

Are blest with beauty's gift of grace I ween. 
Each month that passes well may claim a share in 

The bloom and brightness of that island green. 
But which one brings to meadow, mount and mire- 
land 

The many charms of Maytime's rich array? — 
Ah, well I know of all the months in Ireland 

There's none so bright or beautiful as May! 

For then the hawthorn whitens all the hedges. 
And sweetens all the vagrant winds that blow, 

And then you hear along the forest edges 

The murmur of the myriad streams that flow, 

40 



And then you seem to catch from ruins haunted 

The magic melodies the fairies play, 
Ah, then you dwell within a land enchanted 

Who dwell in Ireland in the month of May ! 

Full many a time in this, the strangers' city, 

I've marked the yearly coming of the spring, 
And from the depths of some profound self-pity 

The tears have flowed at memory's poignant sting, 
And o'er my soul has rolled a tide of sadness 

For boyhood hopes and boyhood's distant day. 
Remembering all the glory and the gladness 

Of youth and Ireland in the month of May ! 



41 



old Cork Beside The Lee 

Stately cities rise in splendor 

O'er the land wherein I dwell, 
And they waken feelings tender 

In the hearts that love them well — 
San Francisco's golden gateway, 

Stately Boston, rich New York — 
But I vow I'd leave them straightway 

For a glimijse of dear old Cork! 
Yes, their glories I'd abandon. 
Once again the soil to stand on, 
From which rise the walls of Shandon, 

Far across the spreading sea, 
Once again to see the city 
Where the boys are brave and witty, 
And the girls are sweet and pretty. 

In old Cork beside the Leel 

Stately cities rise in splendor 

O'er the world from pole to pole, 
But I never will surrender 

That old city of my soul; 
She is neither Rome nor Venice, 

Neither Boston nor New York, 
But where'er my tongue or pen is 

I will hymn the praise of Cork I 
Yes, wherever I may wander, 

42 



Still my heart will ever ponder 
On that old town over yonder, 

Far across the spreading sea, 
On that famous Irish city, 
Where the boys are brave and witty, 
And the girls are sweet and pretty. 

In old Cork beside the Lee! 

Should again our land in splendor 

From her lowly state arise. 
Flinging forth — may God defend her! — 

Her green banner to the skies. 
Many exiles would be thronging 

Back from Boston and New York, 
Just to satisfy their longing 

For a glimpse of dear old Cork! 
Ah, there would be no delaying 
Those whose hearts for years were praying 
On the Mardyke to go straying 

As in days of youth and glee. 
In the charming Irish city, 
Where the boys are brave and witty, 
And the girls are sweet and pretty. 

In old Cork beside the Lee! 



43 



A Moonlit Night 

The night is sanctified with holy seeming, 
All nature joins to worship the Divine, 

Like newly-lighted altar-candles gleaming 
The stars begin to shine; 

Like incense is the perfume of the valleys. 
The winds like voices sing along the coast. 

While high above the ocean's brimming chalice 
The moon hangs like a Host. 



44 



Robert Emmet 

(On Sept. 20, 1803, Robert Emmet was executed.) 

In Dublin city, one September day, — 
Ah, me, how fast a hundred years may run! — 
A tragic deed in Thomas street was done, 

A deed whose memory hath not passed away; 

For there begirt by troopers in array. 
Upon a ghastly scaffold in the sun, 
Young Emmet, Ireland's best-beloved one 

Went forth, the forfeit of his life to pay. 

Dead, aye, he's dead. A century of years 
Have strewn their blossoms on his grave since then, 
Have made the grasses green above his head. 
And yet, not dead! Let us put by our fears! 
Young Robert Emmet can not die, while men 
Have hearts to feel, or women, tears to shed! 



45 



The Dream Of You 

Dreams I have had of glory and of splendor, 

Rising triumjjhant over all my fears; 
Dreams I have had i)athetically tender, 

Filling my eyes, I know not why, with tears. 
One with the poets all from ages olden, 

Visions have haunted me my whole life through. 
Yet, among all the dreams my heart has holden, 

Sweetest and best I hold the dream of you. 

Dreams of delight, of splendor and of glory, 

Over my soul may still assert their sway. 
Dreams too divinely sweet for song or story 

Still be my happiness from day to day, 
Yet though I lived until the land eternal 

Broke like a dream upon my wond'ring view 
Never again I'd know the joy supernal 

Now I possess in this sweet dream of you. 



46 



oh, Why Are The Bugles 

Playing ? 

Oh, why are the bugles playing ? 

And the drums— why do they beat ? 
And why are the pennants swaying 

High over the crowded street? 
What pageant is it appearing 

Like verdant ribbon unrolled ? 
And why are the people cheering 

A banner of green and gold ? 



The drums so loudly beating, 

The bugles that gaily blow. 
The banners that wave a greeting 

High over the crowd below; 
The stalwart ranks parading, 

The cheers that deafen the skies 
For a flag of green unfading 

That over the column flies — 



All these are the Gael's expression 

Of love for a land afar. 
All these are his soul's confession 

Of the sweetest dreams that are; 

47 



The live-long year he holds it 
Deep-hid in his heart away, 

But wide to the world unfolds it 
In honor of Patrick's Day! 

This day wherever he wanders, 

Whatever his name or place, 
With faithful spirit he ponders. 

The home of his ancient race; 
In new lands over the ocean 

To-day he remembers the old 
And follows with deep devotion 

A banner of green and gold ! 



48 




< 

w 



z; 

z 

o 

o 

oi 
u 

'SI 

M 
O 
O 

1—4 
t> 

w 

H 

P< 

W 



Ireland In The Spring 

Oh, far away in Ireland now 

The soft spring breezes blow, 
From dewy-spanglcd bough to bough 

The birds fly to and fro. 
With chirj) and trill the air they fill, — 

Ah me, how sweet they sing ! — 
The world is glad and music-mad 

In Ireland in the spring! 

Oh, far away in Ireland there 

Are laughing streams that flow 
Through verdant valleys w^here the fair, 

Sweet-scented hawthorns grow: 
And every breeze that stirs in these 

Is sure a shower to fling 
Of blossoms white as snow at night — 

In Ireland in the spring! 

Oh, far away in Ireland rise 

The distant mountain peaks. 
And many a raptured eye descries 

The Galtees and the Reeks: 
What varied hues of misty blues 

On slope and summit cling, 
What shine and shade in glen and glade, 

In Ireland in the spring! 

49 



Oh, far away in Ireland, I 

Am fain to be to-day. 
Beneath the tender Irish sky 

Where once I used to stray. 
The livelong year I'm happy here 

Until the robins sing; 
Ah, then I sigh for wings to fly 

To Ireland in the spring! 



50 



A»4 



Father O'Growncy 

By the wash of the far Pacific, 

Alone in his grave he Hes, 
i\far from the gleam of his native stream 

And the smile of his native skies, 
The turf of his tomb may blaze and bloom 

With the splendid flowers of the West, 
But 'tis all unmeet for his last retreat — 

He should lie in old Erin's breast! 



Oh, his was the tenderest spirit 

That ever from Ireland sprung! 
Can we think unmoved of the way he proved 

His love for the Gaelic tongue ? 
Can we think unstirred of the deed and word 

Of the delicate form and frail, 
Who strove to save from Oblivion's grave 

The language of Innisfail? 

Ah, no — he is unforgotten. 

His worth shall never depart. 
The sound of his name awakes to flame 

The love of the Irish heart. 

* Since this poem was written the remains of the illustrious 
priest who did so much for the Gaelic movement have been 
transferred to Irish earth. 

51 



But lonely there, though the i)lace be fair, 
In that grave in the West he seems — 

He would love the best to be laid at rest 
In the old Green Isle of his dreams 1 

From his tomb by the far Pacific 

Let us tenderly bear him back. 
O'er leagues of land from the foreign strand, 

O'er the perilous ocean's track; 
Let us bring him o'er from a distant shore 

To the place where his people dwell, 
Let us lay him deep for his last long sleep 

In the land that he loved so well! 



52 



Robin With The Rosy Breast 

Robin with the rosy breast— 

I can hear you when the morn 
Gilds the sky from east to west 

With the gold of day new-born; 
I can hear your liquid note, ^ 

Like a fountain falling fair- 
Robin with the ruby throat, 

And the manner debonair! 

Robin with the rosy breast- 
When you came this way last year, 
Came to mate and came to nest. 

One who loved you well was here; 
All things sweet the world possessed 

In his kindly heart had room, 
You he loved among the rest, 

Robin like a rose in bloom! 

Robin with the breast of fiame— 

Golden-sweet your song may be, 
But 'twill never be the same. 

Nevermore the same to me; 
Sunhght falls on wood and wave, 

Summer reigns from east to west— 
But you're singing o'er his grave, 

Robin with the rosy breast! 



53 



The Hills O' Carrickbeg 



The hills o' Carrickbeg, a gradh, I'm dreamin' of 

'em yet, 
An' many a time with tears for 'em, me poor ould 

cheeks are wet, 
Me poor ould cheeks are wet, a gradh, me heart is sick 



an' sore 



With longing for the Irish hills I'll ne'er be seein' 
more. 



The hills o' Carrickbeg, a gradh, 'tis I that know 'em 

well, 
Tis often I could see 'em and I walkin' to Clonmel, 
I walkin' to Clonmel, a gradh, from Carrick down 

below, 
The sight of 'em would cheer me every step I had 

to go. 



The hills o' Carrickbeg, a gradh, are green as green 

could be, 
No hills in all America are half so green to me. 
No hills in all America, me longin' e'er could cure 
To see the hills o' Carrickbeg that rise beyand the 

Suir! 



54 



I love the hills o' Carrickbeg, I love each blade o' 

grass, 
O'er which I used to ramble on a Sunday afther Mass, 
Ah, Sunday afther Mass, a gradh, young heart an' 

lively leg, 
I roamed with friends an' neighbors o'er the hills o' 

Carrickbeg ! 

'Tis often as a boy, when I remembered Ireland's 

wrong, 
Or when the heart within me thrilled at some old Irish 

song. 
In fancy I could hear the noise o' battle rise an' swell, 
An' see the foemen flyin' from the hills I loved so well! 

The hills o' Carrickbeg, a gradh, I never more shall 
see, 

Until I die they'll only be a memory to me — 

Ah, many a place in dreams I trace from Coolna- 
muck to Cregg, 

But first and best of all the rest, the hills o' Carrick- 
beg! 



S5 



In The Fields O' Ballinderry 



BalHnderry, Ballinderry, in the opening of the spring — 
Sure, 'twas there myself was merry, sure, 'twas there 

myself could sing, 
Sure, 'twas there my heart was happy (for the world 

I didn't know) 
In the fields o' Ballinderry, Ballinderry, long ago! 



Ballinderry, Ballinderry, when the summer time 

came on — 
How we blessed the cooling breezes from the slopes 

o' Slieve-na-mon! 
How the singing river wooed us to its waters far 

below — 
In the fields o' Ballinderry, Ballinderry, long ago! 



Ballinderry, Ballinderry, when the corn-crake had 

called. 
When the reaper's work was ended and the harvest 

home was hauled. 
On the last load riding gaily laughed the children 

in a row! 
In the fields o' Ballinderry, Ballinderry, long ago! 



56 



Ballinderry, Ballinderry, in the winter cold and white 
Glowed the hearths o' Ballinderry in the darkness 

of the night — 
Sure, the beggar-man from Kerry and the rambler 

from Mayo 
Found a friend in Ballinderry, Ballinderry, long ago! 



Ballinderry, Ballinderry, what a change there is 

to-day, 
Though the place is there as ever, ah, the faces — 

where are they? 
Gone the merry-hearted maidens, gone the boys I 

used to know 
In the fields o' Ballinderry, Ballinderry, long ago! 



57 



O Little Lamp 



little lamp that glows before the shrine 

Of Christ the Lord, here in the chapel dim, 

1 would the tireless constancy were mine 

Wherewith your radiance serves and honors Him ! 

O little lamp! your steadfast worship shames 
My hours of deep discouragement and doubt. 

When fitfully with love my heart up-flames, 
And then in dark forgetfulness goes out. 



58 



Christmas Time In Ireland. 

At Christmas-time in Ireland how the holly branches 
twine 
In stately hall and cabin old and gray! 
And red among the leaves the holly-berries brightly 
shine, 
At Christmas-time in Ireland far away. 
And brighter than the berries are the kindly Irish 
eyes, 
And cheery are the greetings of the day, — 
The greetings and the blessings from the Irish heart 
that rise 
At Christmas-time in Ireland far away! 

At Christmas-time in Ireland you can hear the chapel 
bell 
A-calling ere the dawning of the day. 
You can see the people thronging over field and over 
fell, 
To the "early Mass" in Ireland far away; 
And saintly are the soggarths * that before the altars 
stand, 
And faithful are the flocks that kneel and pray— 
Ah, surely God must show'r His choicest blessings on 
the land 
At Christmas-time in Ireland far away! 

* Properly, Sagairt. 

59 



At Christmas-time in Ireland there is feasting, there 
is song, 
And merrily the fife and fiddle play, 
And lightly dance the colleens f and the boys the even- 
ing long, 
At Christmas -time in Ireland far away; 
There is light and there is laughter, there is music, 
there is mirth, 
And lovers S})eak as only lovers may — 
Ah, there is nothing half so sweet in any land on 
earth 
As Christmas-time in Ireland far away! 

At Christmas-time in Ireland there is sorrow, too, 
for those 

Who scattered far in exile sadly stray. 
And many a tear in silence for a friend beloved flows 

At Christmas-time in Ireland far away; 
But still amid the grieving is a hope to banish fears, 

That God will send them safely back some day. 
To know again the happiness that long ago was theirs 

At Christmas-time in Ireland far away. 

f Properly, Cailini. 



60 



The First And Last Gift. 

When Christ a Babe on Mary's breast 
Lay fondly folded close to her, 

Came Kings from out the distant East 
And offered Him their gift of myrrh. 

And when, upraised against the sky 
In after years on Calvary's hill. 

The Son of Man was nailed to die, 
The gift of myrrh was offered still. 



6i 



Songs At Christmas 

I — The Star of Bethlehem. 

When Jesus Christ, a little child, 

In Bethlehem was born, 
There shone a star across the wild 

More glorious than the morn. 
It glowed and gleamed, it blazed and beamed 

Above the lonely hill — 
Ah, blessed star of Bethlehem, 

It lights the nations still! 

II — The Vision of Mary. 

Lo, the Infant holy 

In the manger lies. 
See, the shepherds lowly, 

Gaze with rev'rent eyes. 

Mark the Mother Mary — 

Say, ah, can she see 
Him, her God, her baby, 

Nailed upon the tree ? 

Ill — St. Joseph's Vigil. 

Silently, with clasped hands. 
By the manger Joseph stands, 
O'er the Infant in the straw 
Watching with a holy awe. 

62 



Guardian of the Mother mild, 
Guardian of the holy Child; 
Artisan to whom is given 
Knowledge of the things of Heaven ; 
Lowly one who knows and sees 
God's eternal mysteries! 

IV — When Christ was Born. 

When Christ, a little Babe, was born 

In Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, 
When Christ, a little Babe, was born, 

Oh, years and years ago. 
With voices sweet, the angels came 

To Bethlehem, to Bethlehem, 
And sang the Infant Jesus' name, 

Oh, years and years ago! 
With hasty steps the shepherds went 

To Bethlehem, to Bethlehem, 
And low before their Saviour bent. 

Oh, years and years ago ! 
Ah, would I had been there to see, 

In Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, 
The Babe upon His Mother's knee. 

Oh, years and years ago! 
And would I had been there to hold, 

In Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, 
My cloak between Him and the cold 

Oh, years and years ago! 



63 



The Road To Bethlehem 

'' Therewas no room for them in the inn." 

Along this road one evening long ago 

Two weary travellers came to Bethlehem, 
And sought for shelter at the inns; but, lo! 
In all the inns there was no room for them. 

From door to door went Joseph, grave and kind — 
From door to door he went in Bethlehem; 

No i)lace to shelter Mary could he find, 

Beneath no roof-tree there was room for them. 

And so, with one mysterious Star o'erhead. 
They came unto a hillside bleak and wild. 

And there among the kine, beneath a shed, 
The Holy Mother bore the Holy Child. 

O foolish folk, what blindness held your sight ? 

heedless folk of olden Bethlehem! 

Could ye but know who sought a place that night, 

1 ween ye had found room enough for them. 

O Christian men, O Christian maids and wives! 

How can ye blame the folk of Bethlehem, 
If God's Elect are strangers in your lives^ 

If in your hearts you have no room for them. 



64 



Under The Rose 



W. H., September 25, 1902. 

Under the rose he lay last night, 

Under the lily and rose. 
Red was the rose and the lily was white, 
Gleamed over all the tapers' light, 
But he, who loved the scent and the sight 

Of every flower that grows, 
Lay still and cold in the silent night 

Wrapped in serene repose, 
Still and cold he lay in the night — 

Under the rose! 



Like to the lily his soul was pure. 

But his heart — his heart was a rose ! 
Little he cared for the worldly lure. 
His hope was set in a Hope secure, 
In faith and hope was his footstep sure. 

In the sight of the God Who knows; 
With us, will his name and fame endure. 

While the heart of a lover glows. 
As lover and friend will his name endure. 

For his heart was a rose! 



6s 



Under the rose, O let him lie, 

Under the lily and rose! — 
A grave out under the open sky, 
In the boyhood home where he longed to lie 
Where winds of the west will softly sigh. 

And flowers of the west unclose; 
Far from the clamor and far from the cry 

Of the world, its ways, and its woes; 
Peace to his soul, and let him lie 

Under the rose! 



66 



The Irish On Parade 

The sun is shining brightly, 

The wind is brisk and keen, 
The flaunting colors lightly 

Are tossing o'er the scene; 
With bugles gayly blowing 

And flag of green displayed — 
The street is filled with marching men, 

The Irish on parade! 

They come with chargers prancing, 

With lilting fife and drum. 
They come with sabres glancing; 

With dancing plumes they come; 
They wear the verdant vesture 

That covers hill and glade. 
The color of undying hope — 
The Irish on parade! 

Between the cheering masses, 

Their bay'nets all a-shine, 
The Irish regiment passes, 

Ten hundred men in line. 
The flags that float above them 

Are battle-rent and frayed, 
The *' Sunburst" with the ''Stars and Stripes "- 

The Irish on parade! 

67 



As breaks a gleam of glory 

O'er sullen skies and dun, 
A bright though transitory 

Reminder of the sun, 
So breaks across the dreary 

Routine of toil and trade, 
The life and light and music of 

The Irish on parade! 

But has this gathering yearly 

No meaning save to be 
A passing pageant merely 

For curious eyes to see? 
Are Ireland's wrongs forgotten ? 

Are Ireland's sons dismayed ? 
And do they mean no more than this- 

The Irish on parade! 

Ah, no,— by all the glories 

Of Ireland's ancient fame. 
By all the tragic stories 

That cluster round her name. 
It is no idle seeming 

That finds them thus arrayed, 
They'll do and dare for Ireland yet. 

The Irish on parade! 



68 




O 



'Si 



W 

w 



The Roses From The Garden 

The roses from the garden fling 

Their fragrance on the air — 
They mind me of the way you bring 

Your sweetness everywhere! 

Within the heart of each they fold 

A drop of radiant dew, 
As in my heart of heart I hold 

The tender thought of you! 



■"-'9 



On That Day 

When thy chiefs all danger daring 

Forth to battle went for thee, 
When they raised their standards, swearing 

They would die or set thee free, 
When for thee, their heart's desire-land, 

They went forward to the fray. 
Ah, 'twas good to be in Ireland 
On that day! 

When thy sons their feuds foregoing 

Once again united stand. 
Side by side like brothers showing 

How they prize their native land ; 
When the love for thee, their sireland, 

Burns all lesser love away — 
Ah, my soul, to be in Ireland 
On that day! 



The Way Of The World 

This world is a weary old workshop at best, 

And the work must go on, 
Day in and day out, without respite or rest, 

Still the work must go on; 
However the smile of the morn may invite 
The soul to a day and a dream of delight. 
We must turn from the lure, we must face to the right, 

For the work must go on. 



Yes, the work must go on, and the hammers 

must swing, 
And a task to be done confronts peasant and king ; 
And the dreamer must stifle the song he would 

sing, 
For the work must go on. 



The heart may be heavy, the hand may be worn. 

But the work must go on; 
The spirit within may be tortured and torn, 

But the work must go on. 
Though morning may plunge us the deeper in dole. 
Though evening bring nothing to soothe or console. 
We are yoked to a force that we may not control, 

And the work must go on. 

71 



Yes, the work must go on, and the wheels must 

go round. 
And the hammers must swing and the anvils 

must sound, 
And new words must be spoken, new thoughts 

must be found. 
For the work must go on. 

A worker outwearied falls down at the loom, 

But the work must go on; 
The toiler that falls for another makes room, 

And the work must go on ; 
Another steps into the place and the pay, 
To forward the task howsoever he may, 
And the worker who dies is forgot in a day. 

But the work must go on. 

Yes, the work must go on, and the dullest must 
^ learn 

That the life of a man is of minor concern, 
'Tis our fate to fall out one by one in our turn. 
But the work must go on. 



7^ 



When Winter Winds 

When winter winds are coldest 

On hillside and on lea, 
Still, still, my heart, thou holdest 

A dream of days to be, 
A dream of song birds singing 
A dream of flowers up-springing 
A dream of summer bringing 

Its dear delights to me! 

'Tis thus when aught comes clouding 

My spirit's starry rays. 
Comes shadowing and shrouding 

The brightness of my ways. 
However sad or tearful, 
However dark or fearful. 
My heart holds one thing cheerful— 

A dream of better days! 



73 



In Bygone Days — And Now 

In bygone days your gallant sons 

Were not content to sigh for you, 
They faced the gallows and the guns 

Full fearlessly to die for you ; 
They did their best as they knew how, 

Nor feared their lives to give for you — 
We have a duty here and now, 

Dear land, and that's to live for you! 
To live for you, 
To live for you, 
Our every thought to give for you, 
Not ours to die — 
But ours to try. 
Dear native land, to live for you! 



In bygone days your sons of toil 

Were not content with words for you, 
They seized their ploughshares from the soil 

And beat them into swords for you. 
This duty plain before them set, 

Their heart's best blood to give for you. 
Their names will never fade — and yet 

Our duty is to live for you. 
To live for you. 
To live for you, 

74 



Our word and work to give for"you, 

Not ours to die — 

But ours to try, 
Dear native land, to live for you! 

In bygone days your sons would scorn 

The men that meant no deed for you, 
The boasters (would they were unborn!) 

Of burning zeal to bleed for you. 
These braggart warriors of the tongue 
With empty words to give for you — 
They find no foremost place among 
The men resolved to live for you ! 
To live for you, 
To live for you, 
Resolved their best to give for you, 
'Tis men sincere 
Can lead us here, 
Dear native land, to live for youl 



75 



The Fellow Who Fights Alone 

The fellow who fights the fight alone 

With never a word of cheer, 
With never a friend his help to lend, 

With never a comrade near, 
'Tis he has need of a stalwart hand 

And a heart not given to moan, 
He struggles for life and more than life — 

The fellow who fights alone! 

The fellow who fights the fight alone, 

With never a father's smile, 
With never a mother's kindl)' tone 

His sorrowful hours to guile. 
Who joins the fray at the dawn of day. 

And battles till light is flown, 
Must needs be strong for the fight is long 

The fellow who fights alone! 

Ah, bitter enough the combat is. 

With every help at hand, 
With friends at need to bid God speed. 

With spirits that understand, 
But fiercer far is the fight to one 

Who struggles along unknown — 
Ah, brave and grim is the heart of him, 

The fellow who fights alone! 

76 



God bless the fellow who fights alone, 
And arm his soul with strength, 

Till safely out of the battle rout 
He conquering comes at length, 

Till far and near into every ear 
The fame of his fight is blown. 

Till friend and foe in the victor know 
The fellow who fights alone! 



77 



The Victor's Wreath 

After long years of wearisome endeavor, 
Trouble and toil that seemed to last forever, 
That for whose sole attainment he had striven 
Early and late, into his hand was given. 

Only a crown of laurel leaves entwisted — 
Yet he had thought if any joy existed, 
Surely it would be his whose constant passion 
Won for his brows that laurel crown's possession. 

Well, it was his away from all to bear it, 
Fated he was to win it and to wear it. 
Bright was the day that on his forehead bound it- 
Ah, but a cruel crown of thorns he found it ! 



78 



In Fair Bohemia It Is Always 

Spring 

In fair Bohemia it is always spring, 

Forever there the buds of hope unfold, 
Forever there the birds of promise sing 

Their clearest canticles in wood and wold ; 
Forever there the sunset's gorgeous gold 

Foretells the bliss the coming dawns will bring, 
The sweet surprises that the morrows hold — 

In fair Bohemia it is always spring ! 

Let others enter in the furious race 

For fading honors, fame and golden store, 
But they who dwell in that enchanted place 

Know not the curse of much demanding more ; 
A land it is of natures frank and true, 

A land of friendly hands that clasp and cling, 
A land of visions old yet ever new — 

In fair Bohemia it is always spring ! 

In fair Bohemia it is always spring, 

'Tis always time to sow, and hope, and dream. 
The swallow there is ever on the wing. 

And early flowers bloom by every stream. 
No thought is there of coming blight or cold, 
ll'l! No cruel sun to scorch or wind to sting, 
No fear of fading or of growing old — 

In fair Bohemia it is always spring! 

79 



To Be Kind 

It is hardly worth while to be anything else but kind, 
There are sinners around us, 'tis true, but 'tis easy 

to find 
That they stumble and fall, not because they are bad, 

but are blind. 

It is hardly worth while to be anything else but just. 
For to-day or tomorrow we die, and our bodies are 

dust. 
And the millionaire lies with the beggar who craved 

for a crust. 

It is hardly worth while to be anything else but good, 
It is meet that we serve Our Redeemer the way that 

we should. 
It is meet that we love Him and serve Him the way 

that He would. 

To be honest and pure, to be faithful and brave and 

resigned, 
Is the standard He sets for a heart and a soul and 

a mind, 
And always and aye to the end, to be kind — to be 

kind! 



80 



When The World Was Youthful 

Yet 

Said my heart to me in youth: ''Let us go and leave 

behind 
All the tyranny that trammels us in body and in mind ; 
Here in Ireland there is nothing to be ventured for 

or done, 
But across the broad Atlantic there are fortunes to 

be won." 
So the prompting I obeyed and an exile I became, 
I have found but little fortune, I have found but little 

fame, 
And the dreams I dreamed in boyhood they are far 

from coming true, 
Yet they say I should be happy in the work I have 

to do — 

Ah, but the stress of the hurry and the worry! 
Ah, but the never-ending fever and the fret! 
Ah, but the thought of those days in Ballinderry 
When the heart within was merry, and the world 
was youthful yet! 

Said my heart to me in youth: "Let us rise and fly 

afar, 
There is nothing to be hoped for in the country where 

we are; 

8i 



Ev'ry day the opportunities of life are growing less, 
And the poor are barred forever from the pathway to 



success." 



So the prompting I obeyed, and like others of my 

race. 
In the new land I have struggled for a name and for 

a place; 
And perhaps I have achieved them and perhaps I 

haven't yet, 
But a man can't alw^ays harp upon remembrance and 

regret — 

Ah, but the stress of the hurry and the worry! 
Ah, but the never-ending fever and the fret! 
Ah, but the dreams of those days in Ballinderry 
When the heart within was merry, and the world 
was youthful yet! 

Said my heart to me in youth: "There are fair lands 

far away 
Where an honest man may labor on in peace from 

day to day. 
Fairer even than the valleys that we see from Slieve- 

na-mon, 
And they wait for hands to claim them; let us hasten 

and begone!" 
So the prompting I obeyed and an exile I became, 
And if fortune hasn't blessed me I have but myself 

to blame, 

82 



For the friends within the new land are as true as 

those of old 
And I've found within the new land something dearer 

far than gold — 



C5' 



Ah, but the stress of the hurry and the worry! 
Ah, but the never-ending fever and the fret! 
Ah, but the thought of those days in Ballinderry 
When the heart within was merry, and the world 
was youthful yet! 



S3 



The Memory Of May 

There are memories that Hnger howsoever men may 

change, 
Howsoever Fortune hires us into places new and 

strange ; 
Howsoever on our hearts the hand of sorrow may be 

laid, 
There are bright and blessed pictures of the past that 

never fade. 
Many a happy dream of boyhood in remembrance 

still remains. 
Many a picture of the past my saddened spirit still 

retains, 
But the sweetest, best reminder of the days I used 

to know 
Is the memory of May-time in old Ireland long ago! 



Ah the memory of May-time! Ah, the skies so sw^eetly 

blue! 
Ah, the scented apple-blossoms in the orchard, wet 

with dew! 
Ah, the race upon the river and the hunt upon the 

hill! 
Ah, the vagrant-hearted laddie vainly striving to be 

still! 

84 



Ah, the c.;ll so clear, so luring, of the cuckoo in the 



glen I 



Ah, to follow him, the herald of the summer4n-ne, 



agani ! 



Ah, to leave the years behind us with the burdens 

that we know, 
For our youth and all its sweetness in the May-time 



long ago! 



Let the city's trade and traffic roll before me as it 

will 
I can see the hawthorn shake its snow-white blossoms 

on the rilll 
Let the city's noise and bustle roar around me as 

it may, 
I can hear a linnet singing in a woodland far awayl 
Let the city's smoke enshroud me, I can pierce its 

deepest gloom, 
I can see a mountain purpled with the heather all in 

bloom, 
I can see the children hieing to a place where flowers 

grow — 
Ah, those flowers for Mary's altar in the May-time 

long ago! 



85 



A Song of Duty 

Sorrow comes and sorrow goes, 

Life is ileckcd with shine and shower, 
Now the tear of grieving Hows, 

Now we smile in hapi:)y hour; 
Death awaits us every one, 

Toiler, dreamer, preacher, writer, 
Let us, then, ere hfe be done. 

Make the world a little brighter. 

Burdens that our neighbors bear, 

Easier let us try to make them, 
Chains, perhaps, our neighbors wear. 

Let us do our best to break them; 
From the straitened hand and mind 

Let us loose the binding fetter, 
Let us, as the Lord designed, 

Make the world a little better. 

Seliish brooding sears the soul, 

Fills the mind with clouds of sorrow, 
Darkens all the shining goal 

Of the sun-illumined morrow. 
Wherefore should our lives be s};ent 

Daily growing blind and blinder — 
Let us, as the Master meant, 

Make the world a little kinder! 



86 



Love's Content 

What do I care if da^ by day 

Down pours the rain from sullen skies; 
No cloud can hide from me away 

The sunshine of your eyes; 
And while I find my sunshine there 

What do I care? 

O, let the skies be gray or blue, 
O, let the seasons rain or shine, 

So long as I am dear to you. 
So long as you are mine, 

If davs be foul or days be fair, 
What do I care? 



87 



The Troubadour 

He sang of olden Spain — the song 

Came upward from the street below, 
And bore in every tone a throng 

Of golden dreams of long ago; 
And all the dead and gone romance 

Of that old land beyond the sea 
Came back to capture and entrance 

My spirit with its witcli^ery. 

He sang of olden Spain — there moved 

Before my gaze the warrior men 
Of fair Castile, whose prowess proved 

The downfall of the Saracen; 
With swords of steel and souls of fire, 

Their banners blowing in the wind. 
Rode onward many a knight and squire 

Across the mirror of my mind. 

He sang of olden Spain — the land 

With glorious gonfalon unfurled, 
The shadow of whose mailed hand 

Struck terror into half the world ; 
The magic of whose name was known 

To strange, wild people over seas, 
The echo of whose fame was blown 

In all men's ears bv everv breeze. 

y ml 



He sang of Spain, of Spain the crowned, 

Of Spain the faithful, Spain the just — 
Long, long before the lands she found 

Had trailed her banner in the dust; 
While yet to ancient teachings true 

She held the world's supremest seat, 
Long, long before her empire knew 

The pust and ashes of defeat. 

He sang of olden Spain — I heard 

A fountain musically fall, 
A wand'ring wind went by and stirred 

A rose-tree trained against a wail; 
A tinkling lute with voices blent 

Went o'er and o'er a lover's rime, 
The while a convent belfry sent 

Across the land the vesper chime. 

He sang of olden Spain and ceased. 

My dreaming ended there and then. 
My spirit from its spell released 

Came back to consciousness again. 
The present, commonplace and plain. 

Effaced the splendor and romance 
Evoked by that Castilian strain 

A strolling singer sang by chance. 



89 



A Winsome Wife And Baby 

However dark the day be, 

However filled with woe, 
A winsome wife and baby 

With love can make it p;low. 
However grim and gray be 

The sullen skies above, 
A winsome wife and baby 

Can light them with their love! 

However sad we may be. 

However cares annoy, 
A winsome wife and baby 

Our grief can change to joy. 
However lonsj the wav be 

O'er which we have to roam, 
A winsome wife and baby 

Can make a heav'n of home! 



90 



when Flails The Curtain 

When falls tlic curtain, he who plays the clown 

And he the king, arc on a common level, 
The villain with the N^irtuous one sits down. 

The angel smiles on him who played the devil. 
The peasant fraternizes with the peer, 

And village maids, and courtly dames and queens 
Mingle together without fear or sneer — 

They're only players all, behind the scenes! 

When falls the curtain on the ])lay of Life — 

This play designed to entertain the gods — 
The parts assigned us in its mimic strife 

(Though now we think so) will not make much 
odds. 
Who plays on earth the king will be as mean 

As any thrall that wearied him with prayers — 
Peasant and peer, and country girl and cjueen, 

Behind the scenes, will all be only players! 



9i 



A Ballad Of Equipoise 

We must retain our equipoise 

No mutter how the world may wag, 
Despite the clamor and the noise, 

Despite the fever and the fag; 

Though long-expected fortune lag, 
And time our dearest dream destroys, 

No matter how the world may wag 
We must retain our equipoise. 

We are no longer maids and boys 

Affrighted at a withered hag, 
Aggrieved because of broken toys — 

Possessions that we once could brag; 

But we can scorn the cares that nag 
And flout the grief that fate employs. 

No matter how the world may wag 
We must retain our equipoise. 

We must retain our equipoise. 

We musn't let our spirits flag. 
The sweetest pleasure often cloys 

The brightest day will sometimes drag, 

The whitest page was once a rag, 
The truest coin has some alloys — 

Whatever way the world may wag 
We must retain our equipoise. 

92 



)Z\ J.i ' 



